"A good day's work, comrade,” Pedro said. “I do not know where we are, but we are nearer to the Javary than last night. It is good that the dull skies of the rainy time have gone and the sun shines steadily. Now we can tell better which way we are traveling."
"Yes,” I agreed. “And now that the sunny verao has come we should hear birds calling more often. This country has been too still to suit me. I should like to hear the sweet song of the realejo—the organ-bird—or the long piping of that fifer, the uira-mimbeu."
Just then, as if in answer to my wish, a long clear call came floating through the forest. It died so softly that it seemed to hang in the air when we could not hear it more. As we stared at each other it came again. Three times in all it sounded, neither rising nor falling—just the one note, long and slow. Then we heard nothing further.
"That is not a fifer, and it certainly is not the realejo,” said Pedro. “It must be a trumpeter. You have heard that bird, of course."
I nodded. I had not only heard it, but I had seen it. The trumpeter is that blackish bird which the Peruvians call trompetero—a creature about the size of a big hen, but with longer legs and neck. It is a fast runner but a poor flyer, and the Indians sometimes tame it. I had known one caboclo who kept such a bird, and when it died I carefully cut it open to see how it made its trumpeting cry. I found that its windpipe was very long, running down under the skin almost to the tail, then doubling around and rising again to the chest, where it went inside the breastbone to the throat.
The sound which had just come to us was much like the call of that bird I had known, and yet it did not seem quite the same. If I had heard it anywhere else I should have said it was made by a man with a horn. But here in this desolate region such a thing seemed not possible, unless the man were an Indian; and a blast from an Indian trumpet would never have such smooth sweetness.
"Yes, it must be the trumpet bird,” I agreed. “If it would only stay where it is until tomorrow we might see it, for it is over to the westward. But probably we shall not even hear it again."
I was wrong. We were to hear it once more that day, and several times in the days to come.
WE BUILT a little fire, ate, got into our hammocks, and lay back smoking. Around us it was quite dim; but high up overhead, where were scattered openings in the tangled roof of branches, the sunshine still glinted. Then suddenly it was gone. Darkness swallowed everything but our tiny fire.
With the passing of the sun the distant trumpeter spoke again. And this time the sound was not one unchanging call. Slowly, sweetly, it rose and fell, going higher on each long note, quivering on the highest, and then sinking to the one on which it had begun. There it died away. And we lay there silent, senhores, silent with surprise, and silent with a feeling of loneliness and sadness which that strain left in our hearts.
At last Pedro spoke.
"That is no bird, Lourenço. It is no wild man of the bush, either. Then what can it be?"
"I do not know,” I said. “Some things happen in the jungle which can not be explained. But listen. Perhaps it will come again."
We listened long, but heard only the usual night sounds. After a time these noises blurred and faded into nothing. I slept.
MORNING BROUGHT the trumpet call again. While we were making our coffee we stiffened into listening. The sound was the same one we had first heard—three slow notes in the same tone. But somehow it seemed to us that this time they were weaker than before, and that in them was a note of despair.
We said no word. We only looked at each other. But we hastened our meal, rolled up our hammocks speedily, and paddled away with swift strokes. As we went we searched the jungle with sharp glances. The furo was leading us straight toward the place whence those sounds must have come.
After a time we halted. We had heard nothing more, nor seen anything alive. Yet we knew we must be near the spot we sought.
"It can not be a bird or a beast,” said Pedro. “If it has a body it can be nothing but a man.” Then, breathing deep, he roared out the call we give in our own region when approaching a house—
"O da casa!"
For a moment no answer came. We heard only the slight sucking sound of water around the tree trunks. Then, not far away to our left, the trumpeter answered. And now the notes were not long and slow. They were quick, urgent, discordant—as if a man were blowing a horn in a frenzy of hope and fear lest we go past and leave him.
We yelled together, swung our dugout, and passed in among the trees toward the noise. Soon we found land. We called again, but no voice answered. Several small sounds came to us, though, and we stepped ashore and moved toward them.
Suddenly we stopped, staring at the ground.
A man was dragging himself along toward us. His head hung down so that we could not see his face—only a thick mass of long blond hair. He moved on both hands and one knee. The other leg dragged behind him as if useless. At each forward lift of his knee he grunted as if the movement cost him a mighty effort.
"Stop, friend,” I said quietly. “We are here."
He stopped. His arms quivered under him, then suddenly bent and let him slump down. But as we dropped on our knees beside him he turned his head and, lying quiet, peered up at us. We looked into blue eyes gleaming in a tanned face overgrown with short yellow beard. The face looked drawn and pinched.
"Howdy!” he said hoarsely. “Got any grub?"
"We have plenty of food, senhor,” Pedro said. “Have you hunger?"
"You said it. That's all I've got—hunger and a busted leg. For the love of God, slip me some eats!"
"Por amor de Deos, we will do so,” smiled Pedro. “Lie still.” And he arose and strode back to our canoe.
While he was gone I looked the man over more deliberately. His speech and his dress—pocketed shirt, khaki breeches, knee boots, web belt and flat pistol—showed him to be American. The clothing was not so badly worn and stained as it would be if he had been long in the bush. The right leg was unbooted, and rough splints were tied to it below the knee. Glancing again at his face, I saw that his teeth were set and the sweat of pain was on his forehead.
"You have hurt that broken leg by your crawling,” I said. “Why did you not lie still and let us come to you?"
"Because that would be the sensible thing to do.” His voice was weak, but he grinned gamely. “I never show any sense. If I did I wouldn't be here at all. Besides, I've been on my back for a week, and I've learned what it is to be lonesome."
"What! You have been lying here a week?"
"Yep. Not here, but back in my tent."
Before we could talk more, Pedro came hurrying back with a gourd of chibeh. At sight of it the man tried to scramble up, but groaned and sank back. I scolded him, telling him to keep quiet. Then we fed him.
It was not until the gourd was empty that I thought to ask him how long he had been without food. He said it was three days. Then I wished we had fed him more sparingly at first. But since chibeh is only a mush of farinha and water, I decided that it would not hurt him. This proved true.
"Now if I only had a bucket of coffee and a smoke I'd be all set,” said the stranger. “Got a cigarette on you, buddy?"
I quickly made a cigarette for him, and we promised him coffee as soon as we could make it. But first we decided to take him back to his tent and make him more comfortable. So, when he had finished his smoke, we lifted him as gently as possible and carried him back through the bush.
The distance was short, but the traveling was not easy, and in spite of our care we knew we must be hurting his bad leg. Yet he made no sound. Keeping his teeth locked, he stared straight upward until we brought him to his camp.
Beside a huge itauba tree we found his little tent. Inside this his hammock hung. On the ground lay his mosquito net. We laid him down easily and picked up the net to drape it over him again. On the earth under the net we found a battered bugle.
"So it was this we heard, not a bird,” I said, picking it up and glancin
g it over. “At first we thought you were a trumpeter."
He lay quiet a few minutes, his teeth still set. Then, as the pain in his leg grew easier, his jaws unlocked and he grinned in a tight-lipped way.
"I am,” he said. “Been fooling with tin horns since I was a kid. Maybe it's my name that makes me that way—Horner. Folks used to call me Little Jack Horner, though my first name really is Jerome. How about that coffee, buddies?"
"You shall have it,” I promised. We left him there and returned to our canoe, where we got our coffee and other things and started back.
"A brave fellow, Lourenço,” said Pedro, as we neared the tent. “No fuss, no groan or whine, though he is broken and starved and has been alone with no help in sight. Por Deos! Look there!"
On the ground were jaguar tracks. They were more than tracks—they made a path, showing that the beast had circled for hours around the tent. The marks seemed fresh.
"You were not alone last night, senhor,” I said, entering the little cloth house.
"Huh? Oh, you mean the big cat. Sure, he did sentry-go around here most of the night. He wouldn't come in, so I kept still and let him prowl."
"Your tent saved your life,” Pedro told him. “He could smell you, but he did not know he could force his way through these strange cloth walls. If he had—"
"If he had I'd have eaten him,” Horner cut in. “Did you bring the coffee?"
We made the coffee, and we made it strong. The hot black liquid gave him new vigor. When he had swallowed all he could hold he gave a long sigh.
"Oh boy!” he said. “That's better than a bushel of that sawdust you fed me. How do you guys live on that farinha stuff, anyhow? It takes pork and beans or ham and eggs to put hair on a fellow's chest. Now say, while I'm feeling husky I wish you'd straighten out my leg. It feels twisted."
It was twisted. Working carefully, we reset the broken bone as well as we could and bound new splints on it. As before, he made no sound. When the work was done he calmly asked for another smoke. And then, with the cigarette glowing, he told how he had come there.
HE HAD been a soldier of your United States in the great war in Europe. When the war ended and he returned to his own country, he said, he made the same mistake that many other released soldiers made—he lingered in the vast city of Nova York, quickly spent all his money, and then found himself unable to get work. So, when a chance to make money came unexpectedly to him, he grasped it eagerly.
While he was sitting with other penniless soldiers in a place called Union Square, a tall bony man with strange eyes passed by several times, looking sharply at him and his mates. Then this man asked him and four others to come with him. Being curious, they did so. He led them to a big hotel some distance away, took them to his room, and there made them an odd offer.
He wanted trusty and fearless men to go with him into South America and help him seek something of which he would tell them later on. They would be handsomely paid, and if he found what he sought they would all be made quite rich. There might be danger, he said, but they would be well armed, and the reward would be worth any risk. He had already obtained the promises of other war veterans to go, and he intended to get more. All they had to do was to come along, obey orders, ask no questions, and take their chances of success.
With nothing to lose except their lives, all five of them accepted. Soon afterward they sailed southward with more than a dozen other soldiers whom the bony man had got in the same way. They came up the Amazon and turned into a smaller river, where Indian paddlers in long canoes carried them southward for many days. And in all this time their queer leader never told them where they went or why.
He had been acting oddly for some time, and naturally the men had been talking much among themselves. Now at last they demanded the reason for this long journey into dismal and flooded jungle. Still they got no satisfaction. They were told that they would soon know, but the time had not yet come. Quarreling followed.
The men said they would go no farther. Finding them determined, the bony man suddenly began to rave and shriek. He screamed that he was somebody named Midas, and that he could turn all things to gold by touching them. Then he jerked out a revolver and began shooting at the men.
His bullets killed two soldiers before they downed him. Somebody fired back, and he toppled overboard and never came up again.
After that the men disputed among themselves over what they should do now. None of them had a clear idea as to where they were. Some were for going back as they had come, while others believed that by keeping on they would soon reach the Andes and could then cross the mountains and so reach the western ocean. Before they could settle the question their paddlers brought them to a small Indian settlement where the people gave them welcome. And since all were tired of so much boat travel, they agreed to stay at that place for a few days while they rested and determined what should be done next.
Two days of this were enough for Horner. In spite of much argument, his mates could not yet agree, and he grew too restless to stay idle any longer. So, quietly taking a small canoe, a tent, a little food, his guns and his bugle, he slipped away by himself on an exploring trip to the eastward.
He did not intend to desert his comrades, but only to see what he might see and then return. But he found it so pleasant to be alone that he traveled onward for five days before he tired of it and decided to turn back. Then he became confused among some winding waterways, and before he could find the right one again he met more misfortune. He lost his canoe and broke a leg.
The boat drifted away in the night. While seeking it, he tripped among some vines and snapped his leg over a projecting tree root. Then he could do nothing but crawl back to his tent, lie there, and blow his bugle in the hope that some of his comrades might seek him.
He knew well that his chance of rescue was slight, for he had left the settlement without telling anyone where or why he was going, and the other men probably would think he had gone along the river. And yesterday, he said, his courage had almost failed.
"It's the loneliness that gets you,” he added. “Being hungry and busted up is no joke, but knowing that you've got less than one chance in a million of coming through is a lot worse. I've lain out in No Man's Land for two nights and a day, with five shrapnel holes in me and all hell rip-roaring around, and I thought I was out of luck. But I'd rather be there than here any time. A fellow has lots of company out there. Last night I got so down in the mouth I blew taps over myself."
Seeing that we did not quite understand, he lifted the trumpet which we had laid beside him and blew the sad, sweet song we had heard at sunset.
"That's Taps,” he explained. “They blow it over dead soldiers. I didn't know but I might go west before morning, so I did the honors beforehand."
"But how could you go west without a canoe, senhor?” I asked.
He laughed, and explained that by “going west” he meant dying. So then I told him he was going west indeed, but not as he had thought.
Whether we should be able to find the Indian town over to the west we did not know; but if we did not find it, I told him, we would carry him with us all the way northwestward to our own country, where our old coronel would do everything possible for him. And since it was best for all of us that we lose no time, we would get underway at once.
Carrying him and his hammock together to the canoe, we left him there while we took down his tent. On our return we folded the canvas to make a bed in the bottom of the boat, stowed our supplies differently, and helped him in. When he was comfortable he gave a long yawn.
"Guess I'll rip off a few yards of sleep,” he said. “I'm about all in. Haven't had a real solid snooze since I cracked my shin.” His eyes closed.
After we had paddled a while Pedro said:
"He spoke truth when he said he would rip off his sleep. Hear him snore!"
I grinned, for the blond trumpeter certainly was a noisy sleeper. But as I thought of the long black nights of pain and hunger and hopele
ssness that lay behind him his snorts and gurgles did not seem funny at all. Indeed, I marveled that he had not gone mad or ended his torment with one of his bullets.
All the rest of the day he slept while we paddled on. Near night, as we were seeking a sleeping place, he opened his eyes and blinked at us, the canoe, and the trees.
"Aw shucks!” he grunted. “I'm back here again!"
"Where have you been, Senhor Trumpeter?” laughed Pedro.
"I was back home, playing ball and cussing the umpire because he called me out when I never even offered to swing. Home was never like this. I'll say not! Say, when do we eat?"
"As soon as we land,” I told him. “Are you ready to eat more of our sawdust?"
"I'll eat anything, buddy. If you don't get ashore pretty quick I'll start chewing your leg."
Then, lifting his bugle, he blew a loud, lively air, much different from anything we had heard before.
"That's reveille,” he said. “It means ‘wake up—snap into it.’ Put a hop on your stroke and land me before I get violent."
"Calm yourself and spare my leg awhile longer, and we all shall eat,” I promised. “But I would not blow that trumpet again, senhor, until we reach some place where we know we are more safe. We are few, and it would not be well to let any savage Indians know we are here. Did you blow a bugle in the war?"
"Nope. Not so anybody could hear it. I knew all those army calls before any war came along. Then I wanted to fight, and the only way you can be sure of fighting these days is to make the personnel sharks think you don't know anything."
''How is that?” I wondered.
"If you can do anything they try to make you do it in the army. If you're a mechanic they keep you tinkering on bum motors. If you're a newspaper man they make you a censor. If you know a shirt from a sock they shove you into quartermaster work. If you're a cop they make you an M.P.—and then you're popular, I guess not!
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